He looked over at his nightstand again.

This is doing me no good.  No good at all.

He left his bedroom, making the hairpin turn in the average-sized-for-average-sized people hallway of his apartment.  On the kitchen counter was a bottle of Jameson.  He grabbed it, and last night’s shot glass, and walked toward his couch.  His cat followed him, meowing as if suddenly, angrily realizing that these objects were not, in fact, for him.

Chris poured, and downed, his first shot of whiskey.  It warmed his throat and chest with a start, as if calming him by first punching him in the face.

Jameson will punch you in the face.  Jack Daniels is a kick in the nuts.  And Jaegermeister…that leaves your face-the-fuck down with your pants around your ankles, weeping, wondering what the fuck happened last night.

As he opened his laptop, he smiled wryly at the realization that he had merely left one source of danger for another — farther from the handgun; closer to the weapon that wounded far more gradually, and that, unlike his handgun — fuck suicide, I won’t give them the satisfaction — was one that he seemed compelled to turn on himself.

He scrolled through his files.  There was one document that he wanted; one that he needed to see again; needed, to see where and how this had begun, how a battle had devolved into a melee complete with screams, hacked-off limbs, and severed heads, all of course safely metaphorical.

He found it.  “Letter to Chris 11/1/06”.

Another shot of Jameson sent flames down his throat.  His finger hovered above the mouse button.

Lock and load.